French Vanilla
by Donny's Boy
Summary: The worst part isn't the mistake she made.  The worst part is that, if she had the chance, she'd do it all over again.  Unrequited AprilDon and AprilCasey.  A oneshot set in the 2007 movie universe.


"French Vanilla"

By Donny's Boy

---

Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the plot relating to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and I am making no money from this story. I mean no harm.

Warnings: Some mature emotional content and a bit of non-graphic upchucking. No violence, sex, or mature language.

---

April O'Neil was tired—to the tips of her toes, to the marrow of her bones, she was perfectly exhausted. So as soon as she stepped out of LaGuardia and into a cab, she immediately collapsed into her seat. It had been a long recovery expedition followed by a long trip, with multiple transfers, back to New York. And although she was filled with the quiet pride of a job well done, right now all she cared about were Casey, food, and a hot bath. In that order.

The cab ride deposited her in front of her apartment building in record time. Grateful, April tipped the cabbie a ten before beginning the arduous task of hauling her luggage upstairs. By the time she'd reached the door to her apartment, her arms ached even more than they had before—a seemingly impossible feat.

Sighing in relief, April shoved her key into the lock and threw open the door.

"I'm home!" she announced, with as much energy and enthusiasm as she could muster, as she peered inside. But the apartment was completely dark. Well, of _course_ it was. Of course.

Still, hope sprang eternal. Unceremoniously dropping her bags by the door, April flipped on the overhead lights. "Casey?" she called out, venturing further inside. But a quick survey—from living room, to kitchen, to bedroom, back to living room—revealed that her boyfriend was indeed elsewhere.

_A sports bar,_ thought April sourly. She trudged into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. _Or maybe down at the lair._ Sadly, the only contents in the fridge were a pizza box and a moldy Chinese takeout container. April made a face. _Oh, who am I kidding? He's in Central Park, beating up muggers._

Angrily she grabbed the pizza box and, kicking the refrigerator door shut, she headed for the living room. April plunked herself down on the couch. As she began eating a stale slice of pepperoni pizza, chewing thoughtfully, she glanced around the empty apartment.

The place had left her breathless upon first viewing. The high vaulted ceilings … the hardwood floors … the built-in shelving, painted in tones dark and rich. All of it had seemed perfect. Absolutely perfect. Just like her life had been, at the time—with an exciting new career in artifacts recovery, the rebuilding of her father's old antiques shop, and a steady relationship with a great guy, it had seemed that she had it all.

But now, in the late evening hour, the apartment didn't seem quite so perfect. Despite the high ceilings, the rooms felt paradoxically small and constricting. The shelves that April usually admired now looked cold and sterile and too ultra-modern. Pushing herself off the couch, April walked over to the window and opened it, sticking her head outside. She took a long, deep breath of fresh air and instantly felt a bit better. The air outside was invitingly warm. From down on the street came a bevy of noises: cars revving, music playing, the overly loud laughter of drunken party-goers. The sounds of people, of life, of New York.

April pulled her head back inside the apartment. Turning around, she glanced towards her bags. Her cell phone was in her purse. She could go get it, give Casey a call, tell him how much she'd missed him, and then maybe—

_No,_ she decided even before finishing the thought. Casey wouldn't want to be bothered. Besides, if she called and he was up to the things she was pretty sure he was up to, then the conversation would only degenerate into one of their all-too-frequent arguments. And April didn't want that. Not on her first night back.

So instead she returned to the couch. Sprawling out lengthwise, she told herself it was just to give her weary bones a moment to rest. She'd get up in a minute, finish her pizza, and finally take that nice, hot bath she'd daydreamed about while still on the plane. And then, if she was feeling less cranky, maybe she'd give Casey a call.

Almost as soon as her head settled into the couch pillows, April fell asleep to the sounds of comforting, noisy chaos outside.

---

She awoke with a start and flailed against the unexpected weight on top of her. After a bit of struggling, she realized that it was only a blanket. She blinked groggily. Had she fallen asleep with a blanket? She didn't think so … Wait a minute. Had she fallen asleep, period?

Lifting her head and looking around, April spotted her intruder sitting in the armchair, cheek nestled in his palm, a book open in his lap. She licked her dry lips and croaked out his name.

Instantly his eyes flicked up to meet hers. "Ah! You're awake." Donatello gently shut the book and laid it aside. "How're you feeling? Jet-lagged, I'd imagine."

She rubbed her eyes then glanced down at the blanket. The mystery blanket made a lot more sense now. Then she lifted her gaze again and yawned hugely.

He chuckled. "I guess that answers _that_ question."

She rolled her eyes. After another yawn, she asked, "What time is it, anyways?"

"Oh, about a quarter past two."

So she'd only been out for a few hours. No wonder she was groggy. Slowly sitting up, she stretched her arms over her head, gave her shoulders a roll, then gestured to the spot on the couch beside her. Donatello nodded. He stood up and, after taking a brief swig from a cup on the table beside his chair, he moved over to sit on the couch. As soon as he did, April let her head drop drowsily onto his shoulder.

In return, he wrapped an affectionate arm around her. "So, what are you doing here? Don't get me wrong," he added hastily, "your presence is quite the happy surprise. But I thought you weren't scheduled to return until next week?"

"We were able to find the vase a lot sooner than anyone expected, so I hopped an early flight back. Of course, the real question is … what are _you_ doing here? And in the middle of the night?" She smiled. It was the first time she'd smiled since being back in New York. "Besides trying to give me a heart attack."

"Uh, well. I was just … um …" He trailed off, giving a small shrug.

She turned to look up at him. "Don, you can tell me. You know you can tell me."

He gave a sigh. The sigh of the long-suffering. "It's Raph."

_It always is,_ she thought, feeling both sad and angry on Don's behalf. But she tamped down on those feelings and merely said, in as neutral a tone as she could manage, "You still don't know what he does at night?"

"No. I don't. I _tried_ following him tonight, when he snuck out of the lair, but …" He shook his head. "I lost him after about ten minutes. So I headed over here, thinking maybe Raph would be visiting or that Casey might know where he was."

"And found me instead," April finished for him.

He gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. "Not a bad consolation prize, I must admit."

They sat together in companionable silence for several minutes. From the still-open window drifted the wail of a distant siren. An ambulance siren, she recognized. _Please don't be Casey. Please be safe. _The silent prayer was habitual, automatic. _Please be safe._ She listened intently to the siren until it faded away completely into the surrounding night. And that's when she noticed it.

The scent of French vanilla.

It reminded her of her old college boyfriend. He'd been a lot of things—brilliant, ambitious, utterly amoral—but above and beyond, April remembered how he smelled. Or, to be more specific, how his shampoo and conditioner smelled. An elitist at heart, he only used the best, and his hair products had always smelled like vanilla. Had smelled like heaven itself. April felt her chest begin to tingle in an old, familiar, and thoroughly delightful way.

It was strange, how visceral her reaction was … but then, wasn't the sense of smell the most visceral and instinctive of the senses? The most primitive?

Giving herself a little shake, April spoke up again: "I don't know where Casey is, either. For what it's worth." She laughed, but it sounded a lot bitterer than she'd meant it to be. "We've been left behind, I guess."

She winced almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth. _Leo._ Ugh. How could she say that when Leo was still missing? Just how insensitive could she be? She decided it must be the sleep deprivation. But before she could apologize, Don snorted and muttered, "Truer words have not been spoken."

As he did, she caught another whiff of vanilla. The scent was clearly coming from Donatello. _The tea,_ she realized and felt suddenly silly. Well, of course. He'd been drinking from a tea cup, and he always helped himself to her stash of French vanilla tea when he came over. Of course. It was just that he usually wasn't close enough that she could smell it on his breath.

Which was an odd realization. Suddenly, without quite understanding why, April felt a bit embarrassed, a bit uncomfortable. But she resolutely ignored her discomfort. It was silly to feel like that. She was tired and jet-lagged and just being ridiculous.

"At least," she blurted out, in a voice that sounded loud in her own ears, "we have each other."

"Absolutely," said Don. He turned his head to look at her.

He still smelled like vanilla, and the scent was stronger now that he was facing her. It was a bit distracting.

"And Mikey." April stared into his eyes and noticed, for the very first time, that there were small specks of gold in their dark, brown depths. Swallowing thickly, she whispered, "And Splinter."

Nodding his agreement, he gave her a warm, genuine smile. She grinned back. Then she leaned forward and kissed him. Running the tip of her tongue over his lips, she could taste the vanilla, and she shivered. Quite impossibly, Don tasted even better than he smelled. She breathed in deeply and, for a brief moment, was completely lost in his scent and his taste.

But only for a moment. A split-second later, he was off the couch and halfway across the room, panting heavily, his chest rising and falling with all the speed of a hummingbird's wings. He opened his mouth then closed it again. April could see the gears whirling away in his mind, trying and failing to come to terms with what had just happened. Instinctively April reached out, to reassure him, to comfort him, just as she'd done a hundred times before, but he recoiled as though struck. As he quickly backed away from her, his shell hit the shelves with a dull thud. A few books tumbled to the floor.

All she could do was stare at him in dawning horror. What on earth had she _done_?

"April! April, I …" He swallowed nervously. His eyes, large and scared, were not entirely unlike those of a caged animal. "I mean, I just wanted to … to say thanks for the … for the tea, and …"

"Donny," she began softly.

But Donatello plowed on with grim determination: "If you, uh, hear from Raph … if he drops by or otherwise, you know, contacts you …"

"I'll call right away. I promise."

"Good. Good! Great." He edged his way towards the opened window. "I should … I should go. I should leave."

She couldn't argue with that. Folding her hands in her lap, trying to keep a tenuous grasp on her nerves, April tried to think of something casual to say. Something friendly and normal, something that she would have said fifteen minutes ago. _"Tell Mikey hello for me,"_ perhaps. Or maybe _"Be careful on your way home."_ But instead she found herself insisting, quietly but decisively, "Tonight never happened."

"Of course not," he replied, sounding surprised as well as relieved. Placing one hand on the windowsill, he gave an abbreviated wave good-bye with the other. She couldn't help noticing the shakiness in his hands or the sense of betrayal in his eyes. Then, without once looking back, he disappeared out the window into the night beyond.

April stared after him and tried to fight down the sick feeling that was developing in the pit of her stomach. Oh, sweet heavens. What had she done? He was Donny. Not only was he not Casey, not her boyfriend … he was Donatello. And—her stomach twisted viciously—he was only eighteen. He was little more than a _child_, for goodness sake! Sweet, innocent Donny. Her friend. Practically her little brother.

But the worst part … the absolute worst part … was that, out of all the regrets that were now clawing away at her mind and at her sanity, her biggest regret was that he hadn't kissed her back.

---

When April awoke again, sunlight streamed in through the still-open window. For one blessed moment, she didn't remember last night. And then she did. LaGuardia. Cab. Pizza. Don.

The taste of vanilla.

She remembered curling up in a tight ball on the couch afterwards, sick and ashamed and lonely. She remembered once again considering, and once again rejecting, the idea of calling Casey. Lastly, she remembered finally crying herself back to sleep.

Yawning, stretching, she sat up on the couch and stared numbly out the window. She tried to think of what she should do but kept coming back to the only truly viable solution—a time machine. Yes, a time machine would do nicely. It would fix everything. Unfortunately, she didn't have a time machine. She was abruptly ripped from such ruminations when she heard a voice.

"Hey, babe! Good to see ya up! I was gettin' worried."

Oh, no. No. She wasn't ready for this. Not this soon. Shutting her eyes again, April managed to force out a strained "Hi, Casey."

"Didn't expect ya back so soon, otherwise I woulda cleaned the place up a bit." He paused. "You feelin' okay? You look a little … y'know. Not so hot."

Which was an entirely accurate assessment. Upon hearing the unmistakable love and concern in Casey's voice, April felt her stomach lurch. She leapt to her feet, pushed Casey out of the way, and dashed towards the bathroom. Falling to her knees in front of the toilet, she began to noisily empty her stomach.

It didn't take long. There was, after all, only last night's dinner of half a slice of pizza. But after that had been regurgitated, her body demanded further penance. So she stayed put right where she was, trembling hands clutching both sides of the toilet, as her body segued into dry heaves.

"Babe?"

His voice came from somewhere near the bathroom doorway and, when she didn't reply, she felt Casey's hand on her back as he began rubbing slow, gentle circles. April had never loved him more than she did in that moment. Nor had she ever hated him as much—or hated herself as much, for that matter.

"April," he whispered, sliding his hand up to begin lightly massaging her neck. "April, tell me what's wrong."

She couldn't, and she wouldn't. Instead, she dropped her head and rested her cheek against the side of the toilet, enjoying the feel of cold porcelain against her skin. She sensed Casey shift uncomfortably beside her. She bit back a sigh. Over the years she'd come to know Casey Jones fairly well, and she could tell when he would or would not drop an issue. This was going to be something he wouldn't drop.

But then Fate—or, more realistically, dumb luck—choose to intervene. From out in the living room came the distinct ring of April's cell phone.

Still hanging onto the toilet for dear life, April listened as Casey softly padded away towards the living room. She squeezed her eyes shut. As she swallowed down the rancid, sour taste left in her mouth, she wondered just how she'd gotten to this exact point in time. This hadn't been what she wanted, at all. And yet, here she was. Peachy.

From somewhere behind her came Casey's voice: "April? It's some guy who claims he might have a job for ya … says his name is Max Winters?"

She didn't know a Max Winters, but that could not have mattered less to her at the moment. Max Winters was an opportunity to escape. "Tell him I'll take it," she murmured without turning around.

"You sure?" He paused, apparently waiting for a reply. When he didn't get one, he continued, "I mean, don't ya even want to talk to the guy before—"

"Tell him I accept, Casey."

Stunned silence. Then, in a tone filled with hurt and bewilderment, he muttered, "Okay. Since yer _sure_ … I'll tell him you accept."

Listening to her boyfriend quietly negotiate terms with Winters, April tried not to cry.

---

Although things are worlds better than they were before, now that Leo's home and Casey's communicating, that doesn't stop her from noticing things. Quite the contrary. She notices new things all the time. The way he tilts his head, just a little, when he's pondering over something he doesn't entirely understand. The special tone he uses only when speaking to Michelangelo. The fluid, lyrical twirl of his bo during practice or battle. But as though that wasn't bad enough, she notices all the old things too. Especially the smell of vanilla.

She wishes she could turn it off—this noticing, this caring—but she can't.

They never speak of it. After all, it never happened. It never happened, and so there's nothing to say. But every time she catches a whiff of vanilla, whether on his breath or from an oven or just in the air, she remembers. She remembers his soft breath, his dark eyes, his body warm and muscular against hers. She remembers everything.

She wishes she could turn it off—the memories, how she reacts to them—but she can't.

So she does what she _can_ do. She never sits near him and never allows herself to remain alone in a room with him. Is careful to never look him directly in the eye. Careful to never stand too close. If she stands too close, he fidgets. She also doesn't buy French vanilla tea anymore. At first he'd seemed wounded by that. Had probably assumed it was some sort of punishment. But even so, he never commented and never complained. He simply brewed the green tea instead, since that's what she buys now, despite the fact that he'd always hated green tea.

After a while, he actually began liking the new tea. April isn't sure whether that should make her happy or sad. Or relieved. But she doesn't feel relieved or happy, or even all that sad. She just feels guilty and scared.

And, even now, even still …she feels disappointed. She wishes she could turn it off—these feelings, these regrets—but she can't.

---

Author's Notes: This little one-shot was inspired by Whoreoftortuga's "SHE IS: Lover," a very good story that I recommend for all the Don/April angst-lovers. It involved a Don/April set-up where Don initially is fairly indifferent towards April, and it made me wonder, "Hey, has anyone ever done unrequited Don/April … where it's _April_ with the crush?" I couldn't remember ever reading unrequited April/Don, and thus was this story born.


End file.
